


we could grow young

by blifuys



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Iwaizumi finds out how much he loves Oikawa, Iwaizumi is the dense one, M/M, Mangos, Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Unbeta'd but I'm doing my best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 06:50:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19268011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blifuys/pseuds/blifuys
Summary: Time passes, and I'm not getting any younger, but when I'm with you, I'm immortal.Iwaizumi and Oikawa share mangoes after the latter is back from an international match, on their monthly meetups.





	we could grow young

**Author's Note:**

> I'm PRETTY SURE this is bad, and I'm ABSOLUTELY SURE I cannot summary for shit. 
> 
> On topic: Philippines is having a mango influx! No matter where you are in the world, spread the awareness! And maybe buy some mangoes from your local markets to support them? I'm not Filipino but I'll do my best to show my support! (*•̀ᴗ•́*)و ̑̑
> 
> Sorry for the lack of updates lately, I went off for a holiday in Western Australia and only just got back. I literally forgot how to write oh my god-- This was supposed to be a drabble, but I wanted to test myself to see if I could write iwaoi, so welcome to my first iwaoi fic? lmao
> 
> more drabbles to come from the twitter prompts everyone has given me! I'm slowly clearing them!!!!!!
> 
> thirteen months chapter 4 should be coming out in a week or two! Keep your eyes out on that!
> 
> as always, thank you so much for your support and for reading this. leave a comment and let me know if you liked this! it'll really make my day~

Iwaizumi sees Oikawa every month.

Granted, it wasn’t _planned_ or anything, he didn’t really recall a time where the both of them had officially settled on a specific date and time when Oikawa would shimmy into his humble little apartment like he _owned the fucking place,_ tucked away in a quiet street in one of Sendai’s smallest neighbourhoods – bordering his hometown down south where Aoba Johsai is located.

As the National team’s starting setter, Oikawa travels the world, visiting all corners of the world to make his mark known, leaving little traces of himself in the gymnasiums of the world. That he was there, that he had played in the confines of the stadium so far away from home.

_So far away from Iwaizumi._

Iwaizumi is not a stranger to loneliness. He is no stranger to sudden bouts of silence from Oikawa.

There really wasn’t much he could do about it, really. And if anything, he knew that the silence killed Oikawa all the same, if the sudden flood of texts that Iwaizumi gets every now and then was anything to go by.

Oftentimes, their texts started and ended the same way. Strings of messages about Oikawa’s worry of the month - be it his lack of precision in his serves, or the fact that the opponent players wouldn’t think he was cool or anything – was quite in character of Iwaizumi’s childhood friend.

And he listens. He reads and listens, and never once does he take these worries lightly.

See, Iwaizumi knows Oikawa. He knows that Oikawa complains between the lines, and anyone who decided to take whatever he was whining about at face value was undeniably _wrong_ about _Shittykawa_ ’s character in its entirety.

 _You’ll be fine_ , he always replies to him, always the reassuring one between the both of them, _You’re stronger than you think you are. Give yourself some credit._

Since they had parted ways that fateful Spring day all those years ago after taking their final walk home from the gates of their alma mater, there was no doubt that Iwaizumi had grown.

10 years really do something to you. You grow taller, no longer the short stack you were in high school. (Yes, 2 centimetres was significant to him too, _sue_ _him_.) Your body fills out properly, finally long out of the disastrous stages of puberty, and you _definitely_ mature in more ways than one.

The world was like that. It teaches you things that you didn’t know existed in your sweet youth. Like how those gazes you gave your childhood best friend all these years were not platonic in any sense, and you definitely had the hots for that stupid grin that curled up at the ends while elated eyes crinkle at the ends, joyful and beautiful all the same.

Sometime after Oikawa had enrolled himself into one of Tokyo’s prestigious schools and gotten himself a starting position on the Japan Youth team, Iwaizumi suffered terribly.

Kind of like a drug withdrawal, really.

Little glimpses he caught of Oikawa on their infrequent Skype calls were never enough. The shots of Oikawa sending a ball flying across the court on television were never enough. And at some point, even hearing his voice was not enough to satiate the growing hole in Iwaizumi’s heart.

He was 21 when he had finally realised that he was in love with him.

It had been a rainy day, the type where the wind seeped through the cracks of your house and made your feet turn colder by the minute, the kind where you just didn’t want to do anything in a last-ditch effort to conserve the remainder of your bodily heat so that you didn’t have to resort to changing into a thicker sweater or dragging your blanket into the living room.

He remembered it clearly. Japan’s historical win against one of the powerhouse countries, with them winning in straight sets.

Watching Oikawa from the comfort of his sofa was something he had long gotten used to, with his phone in hand just in case he needed to send him an angry text over a stupid grin that he probably shot to some girls standing in the wings.

 _How old are you,_ he would probably say, his fingers moving swiftly across the smooth, fingerprint-heavy glass while his eyes remained trained on the television monitor, _Get your shit together and do your fucking job right. Last I heard, **athletes are not paid to flirt with girls,** you shit-eating bastard. _

Every time he watched his childhood friend, it was always the same thing. Oikawa would suddenly do an absolute 180 on his personality, his terrifyingly concentrated focus on the court before him. He never made a mistake, and he could literally see all the calculations running through the setter’s mind all while he moved around the court like a perfectly choreographed dance.

A dance that they had learned together.

Watching Oikawa always brought him back to his youth. Instead of Oikawa tossing to his new teammates that stood there on the other side of the screen with him, it would have been Iwaizumi on the receiving end of his tosses. It would have been Iwaizumi feeling that exact rush of thrill through his head and down his spine, every time he leapt into the air with the ball rushing through the air for _him_ , just for him, a toss that had been done so many times that he was sure Oikawa could do it in his sleep.

And that really was where he wondered – did Oikawa feel the same way?

Did he feel the same rush of warmth whenever they spoke? The same undeniable urge to smile when they heard each other’s voices for the first time in a while? The same tugging, empty feeling in his chest whenever he saw Iwaizumi’s photos on his Instagram, alongside people – both old and new acquaintances and friends – that were so blessed to have the opportunity to meet up with him?

In that moment, all while Japan was trying their hardest to get a ball past a killer block on his television screen, a curious realisation had made itself known to Iwaizumi after so long, like he had finally managed to tune into a specific frequency after years and years of fuzzy static.

His stupid genuine smile that only Iwaizumi himself was privy to.

The way he counted the number of strokes when he brushed his hair to ensure that he hit a perfect even-number.

The little moments they both shared that Iwaizumi had once mistaken as simple melancholy whenever they shared a stare that lasted a second too long.

All of that had made itself known to Iwaizumi, like a sudden weight that had dropped into his mind. There were many things that Iwaizumi had felt that day. Elation, frustration, relief, longing, _something unknown_ all mixed into one messy ball, just waiting to be unravelled by the person experiencing this mess himself.

But out of all this, he just _knew_ that he loved Oikawa. That he loved with restraint, watching from afar, wanting to watch his partner grow into the star he always knew he was meant to be.

And he could only hope, pray, that one day – Oikawa would love him too.

Iwaizumi sees Oikawa on the last Saturday of every month.

This little routine of theirs had been set in stone ever since Iwaizumi had turned 23, when Oikawa had so boldly announced his plans to ‘spend more time with Iwa-chan!’, after a good 2 to 3 years of little contact.

“You don’t have to, you know,” Iwaizumi had said when Oikawa had first made this plan known to him, the little cup of juice he swirled in his hand a good distraction from the sudden pounding in his chest, “I know you’re busy, it’s no big deal.”

“But _Iwa-chan_ , I haven’t spent time with you in _forever_ ,” Oikawa whined back at him, easily heard in the silence of his apartment. They had decided to stay in to celebrate, and the setter had brought some snacks with him, a plastic bag filled with Iwaizumi’s favourite chips and crackers sitting on the coffee table threatening to spill over from how full it was, “I miss you!”

To new people, it was truly quite hard to read Oikawa Tooru.

This idiot said all sorts of mushy things, with the intent to flatter, his ultimate goal probably to make a better impression on himself. In Iwaizumi’s honest opinion, _that was a shitty thing to do, as expected of something with a downright shitty personality,_ but he couldn’t deny that he understood why. And the reason _why_ was something very little known about Oikawa himself.

Oikawa Tooru is insecure.

See, he said all sorts of things to protect himself, to make himself look good, to ensure that there really wasn’t a reason to hate him. Unfortunately for him, it usually backfired and blew up in his face, and middle school had been a time where Iwaizumi saw Oikawa struggle the most. Doubts about identity, doubts about his skill, doubts about basically _everything_ that made up the person Oikawa Tooru.

So sometimes, he couldn’t help but to doubt whatever came out of that stupid mouth, whether his childhood friend was being unintentionally deceitful or not.

The way he said it, however, made him think that he wasn’t. The unusual softness in Oikawa’s eyes as the other looked at him in such an unexplainable way was quite unnerving – like he meant every single word he said.

_Doubt me, I dare you to try._

In that moment, Iwaizumi was fully uncertain of Oikawa and his thoughts. For the first time ever, he had found it impossible to read whatever the other was thinking, and so Iwaizumi had to settle on trusting that Oikawa was fully sincere with his words.

Iwaizumi looks forward to Oikawa’s visit every month.

And this month is no different.

In the last few years, there was just more and more international matches that Oikawa saw himself starting in, and as a result, there were just more things that his friend would bring over every time he visited.

Here he sits, in front of Iwaizumi, a curious little fruit in his hand and a knife in the other as the blade sliced across the raw yellow-red skin of the bulbous fruit that he had brought back from his recent match in the Philippines.

Mangoes, as Iwaizumi knew them, are expensive. Growing up, there never really was a chance for them to eat a mango, and they had to settle for mango-flavoured treats.

“I found some really cheap mangoes on my day off,” Oikawa happily says in a sing-song voice as he sliced the fruits open in front of Iwaizumi, and he watched as the juices squished slightly out of the little cuts he had made, “I thought they would rot on the plane ride home, but they’re still good! I tried some and they’re _so sweet and delicious_! Oh, you should come visit Cebu with me next time. It’s a really nice island, and there are mangoes everywhere!”

Ever the talkative one. There was a time, long ago, where Iwaizumi had wished desperately for Oikawa to just shut his damn trap for a day. Now? He could listen to him drone on and on for as long as he wanted, without a single complaint. There was that light, soothing quality he never really noticed about his voice, and hearing it made him feel like he was being lulled to sleep.

The things love did to your brain, huh.

“How much are they?” Iwaizumi asks as he watches Oikawa make a grid pattern in the thick, yellowed flesh with the fruit knife. The scent makes his stomach growl, and he could just _taste_ how sweet the fruit was from the smell alone.

“Hm, about 500 yen for a kilogram. I have a whole suitcase of them waiting for me!” He replies with a grin, handing one half of a mango to Iwaizumi, who eagerly accepts the offer with both hands.

It turns out, Oikawa is right. The fruit is sweet and tender in his mouth, and he feels the flavour explode over his tongue in the mango-y goodness. Iwazumi can’t help but take bite after bite after bite, and it didn’t matter that he could feel the sticky juice smeared over his cheek.

Food was food, and this food was _too delicious_ to care about anything else.

“You know, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa speaks up after a short bout of silence, making himself heard over the slurping noises Iwaizumi was making as he digs into the little pile of mangoes that lay on his coffee table, as the both of them sit cross legged on Iwaizumi’s wooden floor. “I really liked the Philippines, and eating mangoes there was a really nice experience.”

“But you know? I can’t help but think that eating mangoes here with you is even more enjoyable.”

It’s a shock to Iwaizumi, that Oikawa would say something so mushy, so _gooey_ , and so cheesy. He looks up at him with wide eyes, and he’s pretty sure that his partner had gone mad from the constant exposure under the sun in the Asian south-east, but there really was no indication that Oikawa was out-of-character or anything.

There it was again, the subtle seriousness on his expression, the same one he had when he had first told Iwaizumi that he wanted to spend time with him more often. The same one that he couldn’t bring himself to doubt, because of how intense Oikawa was, almost like how he was on court.

See here, there wasn’t _Oikawa Tooru – National Star_ and _Iwaizumi Hajime – Seijoh’s former ace._ Here in the small confines of Iwaizumi’s apartment, they were simply _Oikawa_ and _Iwa-chan_ , yin-and-yang, never meant to be separated for too long.

The longing in his chest grows bigger, and it burns with a small flame of hope in his heart, hope that whatever _this weird push-and-pull thing_ they had together would become _something_ one day.

“… Yeah. It’s really nice.” Iwaizumi mutters, swallowing down the last of the mango he had in his mouth, when he feels cold lips against his, sticky with mango juice, but pressed hard against his own with passion as warm as the sun.

There were no fireworks, no so-called sparks that flew like described in romance manga, but there was the feeling of comfort and security – and Iwaizumi wanted more and more.

No words had to be said as Iwaizumi reaches up with his hand, tucking it against the back of Oikawa’s neck as he pulls his head closer to his own, his eyes shutting as he lost himself in the moment, allowing himself to just _love_ without restraint, to have him like he always had.

Iwaizumi sees Oikawa every month, but Iwaizumi loves Oikawa every day.

**Author's Note:**

> [come say hi!](https://twitter.com/nekohmy)


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